


Take me home

by just_another_exhausted_fangirl



Series: Take me home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, OOC Sherlock, PTSD (sort of), Panic Attacks, Protective Sherlock, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, Whump!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_exhausted_fangirl/pseuds/just_another_exhausted_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader (homeless, female) flees into inner London when she gets attacked by people from her past. She runs into Mary, and eventually into John and Sherlock, too. Sherlock takes her in, but no one is prepared for the disaster that is to come.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Under the bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for any grammar/language mistakes as English isn't my first language.  
> TRIGGER WARNING for implied rape.  
> I really hope you enjoy, this is my first try at writing fan fiction :D

The nights were always long and cold in autumn. No matter where you slept, the slugs and snails would always find their way into your dirty, holed boots. But not tonight – because tonight, you wouldn’t be sleeping.

It was already darkening when you made your way down to the bridge. You always kept your few belongings well hidden in a hole you’d dug with a stone serving as a lid. It wasn’t very deep but then again, you didn’t have much. £34.30, a bottle of red Vodka, some syringes but no drugs to use them with, a spare (pretty clean) bra and a sharp knife, was all you carefully stashed away down there. After not eating all day the Vodka seemed like a promising way to keep you warm and lull you to sleep.

But it wouldn’t turn out quite the way you planned it to. As you crawled through the bushes that hid your sleeping place from noisy trespassers, you could already make out the voices you had hoped to never hear again. Paul and his gang of dumbasses. Except, they weren’t actually dumbasses. They planned and executed crimes so well that the London Police had never been able to catch quite every member. And although they were down to four men, they still acted very brutally in everything they did.

Fear started to creep up your neck and you hastily turned around to leave this godforsaken place – all your possessions weren’t worth your life – but it was already too late. One of them had noticed the movement of the leaves and grabbed you firmly by the neck.  
    „Oh, look who it is!“ he exclaimed with an evil grin. Paul turned around and eyed you up. A smile look crossed his lips. „(Y/N).“ He looked different. His hair fell in greasy, brown curls around his neck and the scar on his cheek had faded into an ugly pink.  
    „Remember me, darlin’?“ he asked with his raspy voice and clenched your chin. You tried to shake free but the others just laughed at your attempts. Panic rose in you chest and you could hear your heartbeat so loud and so fast that you feared it could stop any second.

They pushed you so firmly against a wall that you couldn’t breathe. You gasped for air but none would enter your lungs. Their laughs grew more distant and black spots darkened your vision. 'No, don’t pass out, whatever you do, don’t pass...'

* * *

 

You awoke from the stabbing pain in your... well, _everywhere_. You didn’t open your eyes until you were absolutely sure that they were gone. Luckily, there were no voices to be heard and the only footsteps that echoed between the walls of the bridge where those of the pedestrians above your head. You let yourself slowly lift your lids and checked your surroundings. Everyhing was bathed in the dim orange light from the street light next to the road over the Thames. You scanned your body for injuries, as well as the low light let you in the first place, and groaned. Excruciating pain seemed to flood every fibre of your being when you tried to sit up properly.

When you groped the back of your head you felt something wet. _Fuck_. At least the wound didn’t feel very wide. It would hopefully close on its own.  
    Your eyes wandered to your legs and you winced. Blood decorated the entirety of your inner thighs. Please, not again. Please let it just be a cut... But you had hoped in vain. A short brush with your finger between your legs confirmed your fears: 'They’ve had their fun with me. _Again_.'

You wanted to scream your lungs out, scratch your arms until they bled and inject so much cocaine that you would never feel anything again, all at once, but instead you just sat there, motionless. A familiar numbness spread across your body. You couldn’t even cry not to mention properly comprehend what had happened. At least you hadn’t been awake. 'Unlike last time,' you thought.

After about an hour of racing thoughts and blood slowly trickling down your neck you finally managed to move. Carefully, you stood up. But your ribs complained painfully and when you lifted your shirt you could make out a dark purple bruise that had formed over most of your chest. You whimpered – the first sound you had made in a long time – and carefully touched it. It didn’t hurt as bad as your head but the pain was still intense. As long as you didn’t breathe too deeply, it would work though. You pulled up your pants and trousers and stumbled to your hole. You could already see from a distance that the stony lid was gone and swore. But when you fumbled around for your stuff you noticed with joy that they hadn’t taken your knife. If they’d wanted you to have it or if they simply hadn’t found it – it didn’t matter. At least you had something to defend yourself with. Of course they had taken the bra, of course.

As you weakly walked up the slope towards the road you felt sickness rising in your throat and as soon as you reached the pavement, you vomited. But since there had been nothing in your stomach to begin with, you only spat bitter gall which made your mouth burn.    

„YOU ARSEHOLE!“ you screamed and finally started crying. That resulted in you faintly sinking to your knees and sobbing uncontrollably. You leaned your trembling back against the ice-cold pole of the street lamp and looked at the store opposite you. It was a bakery (of all things). The bread was neatly displayed in the big shop-window. You struggled to your feet and walked over. The sight of the beyond doubt delicious croissants made your mouth water. Why didn’t you just steal some money instead of begging for it?! You cursed yourself for being such a coward.

When you looked up, you stared into your own sad, empty eyes. The dark bags under your eyes stood out prominently against your pale skin and your dark hair was shaggy and untamed. You noticed the blood stream originating from your nose that had dried shortly before reaching your collarbones. With a sigh you tried to rub your neck and mouth clean but you just smeared the blood all over the place.

You turned around and walked towards the centre of London. That’s where a lot of other people hung out, even at that time of night (what time _was_ it anyway?), so you would hopefully be safer there. When you strolled into town there were more and more lights positioned at the side of the road and the fear started to abate. Some of the shops were still open and lit the pavement with a bright white light. You calmed down at the sight of the small crowds of people that were leaving the restaurants or bars to get home. Some stared at you with disgust or – infrequently – pity. But no one thought to help you. 'Just a bit of money for food, or... drugs, that’s all I need,' you pleaded silently. But you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You were too scared to talk to any of them. The fear had always been there, ever since you'd left home. And it certainly didn’t help with getting what you needed.

Suddenly, you heard a very familiar laugh. _Paul._ Within an instant, the panic was back in its full form. Your heart fluttered rapidly in your chest and your breathing became shallow. Tears started to bubble up in your eyes and you stumbled backwards. Where was it coming from? „No!“ you cried and frantically spun around in hopes finding a way out. But there were so many people, _so many fucking people_ and they kept getting closer and the laugh grew louder and you couldn’t fucking breathe.

But then you spotted it. An innocent, well-lit side street. You ran towards it and didn’t stop when you reached it; you just kept running, your heartbeat growing so loud that it blocked out every other noise. Tears were streaming down your face, your nose had started to bleed again and your torn jeans were soaked in sweat and blood, so you eventually let yourself rest for a minute. Panting for air, you leaned against a hash mark and sobbed helplessly.  
    Suddenly, you heard a worried voice behind you, „Are you alright?“


	2. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary invites the Reader into her flat and treats some of her wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied rape and some blood, so if you're easily triggered by these things, please don't read.

You jumped at the sound and turned around frightened. You didn’t want anyone to see you in this state – so weak and broken. You took a nervous step back when you stared directly into the clear eyes of a blond, middle-aged woman. She was wearing a red coat with a white scarf to protect her from the icy wind that you now started to feel on your cold, wet cheeks.

She hesitantly took a step forward but stopped immediately when you took yet another pace in the same direction. She frowned and looked you over. Her gaze got stuck on your thighs and instantly jumped back up to your running nose. You felt uncomfortable under her stare.

„You don’t have to be afraid of me, I won’t hurt you. I promise,“ she said in a reassuring tone. ‚That’s what they all claim,’ you thought. But you didn’t say anything, instead you just continued to stare holes into the ground, hoping she would just give you some money and then leave you alone.  
    „What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.“ – „I do,“ you said, looking at her with a sudden boldness. A smile seemed to cross her face, but it was gone so quickly that you weren’t sure if it actually had been there at all.

„What happened?“ You were pretty sure that she already knew though. Your eyes dropped to the ground again. You heard her sigh. „I’m a nurse. At least let me make you some tea and give you something for your bloody nose, alright?“  
And there it was again – the fear. You couldn’t go into her house. She would lock the door behind you, and who knew what she was going to do with you? Your breathing strated to get rapid again and you suddenly, all of it was there again, right in front of you.

 _Paul throwing you against the wall. Their laughter. The blood. The pain._ The memories started spinning in circles; it all became one with that hot summer night that you’d first met him. _You had tried to get him off you, but he was just too strong. All the kicking and screaming – it didn’t seem to bother him, or anyone else that could hear you that night. And then your body just went limp and let it all happen._

You hardly felt the pain in your knees as you dropped to the ground. You knew the woman was still there but you couldn’t control yourself. Her face seemed to levitate in front of you when she lowered herself to your level.  
And then you were back. Just like that. Your cheek hurt and you realized she had slapped you. „What the hell?“ you babbled and looked at her with confusion.  
    „I’m really sorry,“ she replied, looking even more concerned than before, „but you wouldn’t snap out of it.“ And then she grasped your arm carefully, as if to pull you up. But she didn’t actually move until she was sure she had your attention and consent.  
As soon as you were up on your feet, you forced a smile and said „Thank you, I’m okay now, can I go?“ But you could see the determination on her face. She wouldn’t just let you go your way.

„I’ll get you to a hospital“ she finally said and walked you back the way she came from, towards what pobably was her car. „No!“ you weakly protested when she opened the front door. She froze in her tracks and closed it again. „It’s either this or my flat,“ she told you after a short silence. „But... you could just let me walk aw-... home. You’re not my mum, why should you care?“ You didn’t even try to hide your annoyance. She let out a humourless laugh. „We both know very well that you’re homeless. Just come with me, I won’t bother you for long, but I can’t just let you go out there again. At least not in this condition. Whoever did this-“ Something stopped her from continuing and she reached into your pocket, pulling out your knife. „I think I’ll be keeping this. Don’t worry-,“ she added when she noticed your terrified look, „I’ll be sure to return it to you as soon as you walk out of my door.“

* * *

 

‚Why did I just let her bringing me in here?’ you thought when she turned on the light in the flat. You awkwardly stood in the middle of the living room, trying not to touch anything. You felt like you polluted the air in this clean house just by breathing.  
    „I’m Mary,“ she said and extended her hand, but you didn’t take it, so she retracted it. „I’m gonna make some tea, just sit down somewhere.“ You hesitated and looked at your blood-stained jeans with discomfort. „Oh,“ she let out. She rushed into another room and returned with grey sweatpants.

„No. No way,“ you stuttered „I can’t take your clothes.“ – „Of course you can. You just have,“ she grinned while handing them to you. You grimaced. Why the fuck was she doing this?  
    „If it helps you sleep at night,“ you sighed. When she’d made her way into the kitchen you eventually took off your jeans. You were about to put the grey pants on when you flinched at the sight of the blood still trickling from between your legs.

„Oh no,“ you whispered. Why didn’t it just stop? You opened a few doors, desperately looking for the bathroom. „You alright out there?“ Mary called from the living room when you finally found it. After telling her you just needed the loo, you quickly closed the door and frantically started looking for something to stuff your pants with. In the end you just grabbed a lot of toilet paper and put the slacks on.

When you returned back into the main part of the flat, the woman was already sitting there with tea and some cotton patches.  
    „Here, use these to clean your nose and neck,“ she said kindly. When you finished, she gestured you to turn around and examined the back of your head. „Did someone hit you?“ she asked while patting the wound with antiseptic. You winced with the expectation of pain when the damp cotton ball touched your eposed flesh, but she worked so gently that it didn’t hurt at all.  
    „Pushed,“ you repelied curtly. She squeezed your shoulder sympathetically. You didn’t want to admit it, but it felt good. A warm feeling spread inside your stomach and you relaxed perceptibly.

Never before had someone been so nice and understanding. She didn’t try to force conversation and didn’t ask a lot of questions. And, tired as you were, that was just what you needed. Her fingers cleaned up all the blood that had spread down your neck with such caution that you hardly felt them at all.

You heard the click from the front door and instantly stiffened. Without wanting to, you started trembling slightly. Mary rose from her seat behind you and kneeled down in front of you. She took your hand into hers and said soothingly „That’s just my husband, John. He’s a doctor.“


	3. Emergency Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets introduced to John Watson and spends a few hours in the hospital.

John Watson took off his shoes with a relieved sigh. What a day. The cold weather had made his nose run so violently that he had to clean it at least five times while walking home from the bus station and now he was just so relieved to be in a quiet, undisturbed environment.  
    But when he saw his wife walking towards him all the stress disappeared in an instant. He kissed her with a wide smile but pulled back when he noticed something about her. She seemed a little... nervous.  
    „Alright, there’s no other way to say this, please don’t be upset: John, there’s a homeless girl in our living room,“ she said and watched his reaction carefully. He was stunned. „Come again?“ he said with a confused grin, „Why?“ – „I found her in front of our house, she’s hurt and won’t go to the hospital, and John, I’m afraid she’s been raped-“  
    He cut her off „Raped?! Jesus, and you haven’t taken her to the police? Please do explain because I seem to be very lost!“

Mary looked to the floor to collect her thoughts before facing her husband again.  
    „She wouldn’t let me help her at all at first. It was only when I wanted to take her to the hospital that I noticed – she’s very afraid, I think someone might’ve threatened her. Of bloody course I will take her to the police! But in here, with us-“ she looked at him with a hint of guilt „All I’m saying is that we can protect her.“

A shadow covered John’s face for a moment, then he hugged her tightly and said „Alright, I’ll be nice to her. I won’t touch her, promise.“

* * *

 

You heard muffled voices from the hallway and then Mary and a short man entered the room. You tried to hide your fear but you were already quivering again. When the man’s gaze – John? – fell on you, his eyes widened in shock and his hand flew to his mouth. He took a step towards you but stopped when his wife warningly grabbed his hand.  
    „Christ, you look-... I’m sorry, I’ll be in the bathroom,“ he added intimidated when he saw the admonitory look on Mary’s face and raised his hands in capitulation.  
    „No, it’s alright. He’s a doctor right? It’s okay if he stays here.“ You were surprised with yourself when you heard those words slip from your lips, but you didn’t regret them. Maybe it was the warmth of the flat, or the smell of tea or even just that someone cared about you, but you had to start trusting sometime, right? Even the nurse seemed proud.

She led him around the couch to show him the cut on your back head. He was silent for a few moments but then confirmed that it wasn’t too bad. He walked around again so that he could face you, levelled with you like Mary had done before him and asked very cautiously, „Are you hurt anywhere else?“ You negated but it was as if he could see right through you.  
    „Where?“ Your eyes flew around the room trying to fix onto something. You didn’t want to show them, didn’t want them to see.

Mary was by your side ever so fast and squeezed your shaking hand. „It’s alright dear, I will take a look at it.“ So you carefully and very slowly lifted your jumper to reveal the violet bruise that covered your ribs. You could catch a sharp intake of breath but you didn’t bother to lift your head to look whose it had been. You hated being like this, so exposed, ready to touch.

Slender hands pressed down on your sensitive skin, not as tenderly as before, looking for broken bones. „You’re a very lucky girl. Nothing’s broken.“ You snorted at the word ’lucky’.  
    „Can I get some tea now?“ you asked, not even trying to be polite. Someone shuffled towards the kitchen and you finally lifted your head. However, something was wrong. Really, really wrong. Everything was sort of mixed up, like you had just been on a rollercoaster.

Dizzy. That was the correct term. In the blur of Mary’s and the doctor’s voice you looked down at your pants. Fuck.  
Blood was leaking through your improvised sanitary towel onto the couch, a lot of blood. The couple hadn’t noticed yet. You felt the colour draining from your cheeks and it seemed to hard to breathe. You had to gasp for air not to faint.  
John turned around with a frown. „Woah there, what’s-„ and then he saw it. „MARY!“ he shouted just as you couldn’t sit upright anymore. Your teeth chattered but actually, you were so hot. Sweat formed on your face.

Someone pulled down your pants. „No!“ you cried, fighting your attacker kicking and screaming but your feet didn’t hit their target. Someone held your hands down with a force so firm you were unable to fight. And then everything went black.

* * *

 

You knew where you were before you’d even opened your eyes. The beeping noises from the hallway, the bright light shining even through your closed lids and the strong smell of disinfectant: You were in a hospital. In spite of your pleas they had taken you to the one place (besides the police station) where you'd never wanted to return to.

You were looking at an empty, white room. Mary’s red coat was hanging on the guest chair, so she would probably be back soon. You didn’t want to hurt her feelings but you couldn’t stay here.  
You climbed out of your bed. With a sigh you scuffed through the closet where your personal belongings had been put in. Your jumper was still there but the pants were new. Shite, did she buy them for you? Groaning, you put them on. They fitted well enough and the jumper could’ve looked worse.  
    ‚She washed it,’ it suddenly became clear to you. Why would she do so much for someone she didn’t know at all, especially you? But you didn’t have time to dwell on this unnecessary kindness.  
She still had your knife. ‚No problem, I’ll just go back to the flat at some point or another when they’re at work and get it back,’ you thought, trying to reassure yourself.

The hallway wasn’t exactly empty although it was about three in the morning, but no one thought to look at you. In your private clothes you probably looked like a visitor. You quickened your pace when you spotted the lift that would transport you down to the exit. You were almost running towards it now but, when you were about three meters from the doors, they opened with a ping and John and Mary stepped out of the cabin.

You stopped immediately and your thoughts raced. When you turned around to run the other way, they had already seen you. Mary was by your side before you’d even ran past the nurse’s office and grabbed your hand. You tried to pull free but her grip was too firm.

„Listen to me. Right now, listen to me, young lady: We told them that you’re our daughter. WE are paying for your stay. Is this how you’re going to repay us?“ You flinched at her angry words. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. ‚Damn, she’s pissed.’  
    „I can’t stay here,“ you persisted, suddenly terrified „Please, they’ll find me here!“ You instantly regretted what you’d divulged. John had now caught up too, looking compassionately at you when he caught the last words.  
    „Alright. We’ll take you back,“ he suggested, looking at his wife for approval. She turned towards him and proposed something else. „We could take her to Greg's. He’s a DI, after all. Whoever it is that’s after her, they won’t find her there.“

You immediately protested „No! No police!“ – „He’s a friend of ours. We trust him completely,“ John tried to calm you down, „But first, let’s get you out of here. You’re not seriously hurt. The bleeding resulted from a small rip in your Cervix, but they managed to halt it without any sewing. It’ll be healed in about a week. But still, you can’t just wander off by yourself. Please, just trust us.“

* * *

 

Back at their flat, John sat down next to you. Not too close to avoid making you feel uncomfortable.  
    „So, we’ve saved your life, are we at least gonna get your name?“ He obviously thought he was funny and you saw Mary rolling her eyes in a way so that only you could catch it. You couldn’t help but grin slightly. „I’m (Y/N). Thank you for... saving my life.“ – „Who is after you, (Y/N)?“ Getting straight to the point. Geez.  
    „John!“ Mary exclaimed reproachfully and shook her head in disbelief. You frowned and let out a shaky breath. Maybe this was the moment of truth. Maybe, this was the time someone would actually help you and not fuck you over.

„Paul.“ It was only one word but it triggered so many memories inside you. A single tear slipped from your left eye but you didn’t think anyone saw. „Does he have a lot of influence? I mean, are you sure he’s gonna find you everywhere?“ Mary asked, concern in her voice.  
    You looked at her. „Have you ever BEEN homeless?! Everyone knows everyone around here. If he wants to know where I am, he just gotta ask a few snitches and he’s got me. That’s why I avoid places like hospitals.“ – „Well, that explains how Sherlock gets his information so quickly,“ John muttered under his breath.

„Who?“ you enquired. „Oh,“ he looked at you with his thoughts obviously somewhere else, a fondness written over his features. „A friend of mine. Don’t mind me, I was just talking to myself.“ He chuckled. You laughed. „Sherlock Holmes? That one bloke that pays everyone?“  
    Mary burst into laughter. „THAT’s what they call him?“ she snorted. Her husband looked at you with disbelief, a huge grin plastered on his face. „You’re not serious!“ – „Well it’s so much better than Shezza, isn’t it?“ Mary added, still giggling. You couldn’t help but smile too. You hadn’t been this relaxed in very long. You completely forgot the guilt and the fear. The squashy couch and the dimmed lights from the cosy living room made you so tired and before you knew it, you drifted off to sleep.

„Oh, look at her!“ John whispered and kissed his wife’s head when she laid her hand around his waist. „I’ll get her a blanket.“ He shooed into the bedroom. Mary kneeled down beside the sleeping girl’s head and looked at her with relief. She brushed away a loose strand of hair that you had started to chew on. „Rest, (Y/N),“ she whispered, turned off the light and locked the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Mary wash her jumper in like three hours? Magic, probably  
> How do you English? I surely don't know lol


	4. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three call Sherlock. He's not very keen on the idea of taking someone in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a shorter one, enjoy ^^

You woke up at about noon because a sleepy John Watson shuffled around the kitchen. He smiled when he saw that you were awake.  
    „Breakfast?“ he asked. You nodded and felt relief wash over you. When was the last time you’d eaten?

You sat a the table and stared out of the window while munching your cereal. People walked past the garden without bothering to look left or right. Their gaze straight, their steps hasty. They had a destination. Unlike you.  
You started to feel the withdrawal. No fix in over a week. You’d never thought to consider yourself an addict but now that you weren’t able to get any cocaine, you missed it so much. Your hands had started to shake lightly and your mood was drooping. You just hoped your kind-hearted hosts wouldn’t notice so you could leave and get back to your life. It was miserable, but it was still home. It was unpredictable and no one was controlling you, and you wouldn’t give it up for anything. Even if staying here was alluring – you couldn’t. They shouldn’t have to waste money on a damaged thing like you.

Mary sat beside you and followed your glance. She snickered.  
    „Ah yes, the people. I find it quite interesting to watch them. Not in a creepy way,“ she laughed, „I just like to study their faces. Everyone is so unique, you know?“ Then she kept silent, lost in her thoughts. John joined the two of you.

„(Y/N)?“ he asked suddenly, „What are you going to do now? You are very welcome to stay here, but we also have friends we trust without any doubt. If you’re not comfortable here, you can go to whoever you want.“ You doubted that any of them would want you to stay there.  
    „That’s really nice of you, but you’ve done enough. I just wanna go home.“ Mary seemed a bit taken aback. She glanced at John and they seemed to have a wordless conversation.  
    „That is a bad idea.“ – „Why? It’s everything I know, even if it’s cold and wet, it’s still home to me.“

Mary hesitated and then took a decision. „Paul could find you. He probably will. And after what happened yesterday, I will do everything in my power to prevent him from ever coming near you again.“

„No.“ You stood up too quickly, nearly causing your chair to fall over. „When I said you have done enough, I meant it! Why do you care so much?! You don’t even know me!“ In the end you were shouting at them, tears swelling behind your eyes and your hands trembling.  
    ‚Goddamnit, I need some,’ you thought desperately.

They flinched at your sudden outburst. They were doctors, surely they knew what was going on.  
    „Sit down.“ There was a sort of chill in Mary’s voice that made you obey immediately. „Yes, we don’t know you, but that doesn’t mean we’ll just leave you for dead – or worse. What Paul did to you wasn’t your fault, so I don’t see why you should suffer for it. I like you, (Y/N), and I genuinely mean that. You’re such a lovely girl under all that moody teen facade.“ – „Ha! How would you know!“ you exclaimed angrily.

But then you realised. She understood. _She’d been there_. Guilt washed over you.  
    „Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...“

To your surprise, it was John who answered. „Please let us help you.“ Eventually, you nodded. Years on the street had taught you not to trust anyone, but now, you reminded yourself, you weren’t on the street and right now, you were just being mean to the first people in forever that were actually nice to you.  
    Still fidgeting, you tried to listen at what they had to say. They described their friends very elaborately to you, estimating whether their home was a good place for you or not, but you couldn’t concentrate. Now and then you were able to catch a few snippets of the conversation – „Molly’s always at work, so maybe not her, but“ – „Greg has a spare bedroom, but he’s a man, so if you’re not okay with that, we...“

„Could I stay with Sherlock?“

The room went silent. The couple changed a disbelieving look and Mary said, uncertain if you were serious, „I don’t think that’s a good idea.“ You snorted, „Why not? He’s the only one I actually kind of know-“  
    You were interrupted by a disbelieving John. „You _can’t_ be serious! He’s a good man, but he’s also very insensitive. Why do you think, after what happened to you, you should stay with a sociopath of all things?“ It was obvious that he liked Sherlock. He didn’t like saying these words.  
    „Because he won’t ask stupid questions. He won’t look at me with that stupid pity that’s written on everyone’s face when they see me!“ you spat. „Yes, he might be an asshole, but I can handle assholes. What I can’t deal with are good Samaritans. They think they’re helping by making me relive everything!“

It was obvious that you had hurt them but this time, you didn’t care. You were just so angry at everyone and everything.  
    It was Mary who spoke first, rubbing her thumb over your hand. „He’s gonna say terrible things, (Y/N). But in his heart, he’s a wonderful human being.“  
John looked up at her words. „There is no way in hell she’s gonna live with him!“ he shouted concerned, but when Mary looked at him, he seemed to calm down. ‚How many silent conversations can someone have?’ you wondered.

He nodded. „I’ll call him.“ When he got up to get his phone, Mary scooted closer to you and looked directly in your eyes. „Are you sure that’s what you want? It’s not gonna be easy.“  
    You nodded. You knew what he looked like and what he did. That was more than you could say for any of the others.  
    „...Hold on, I’m gonna put you on speaker.“ Mary smiled, „He actually picked up? That’s a new one.“ – „Hello, Mary,“ a deep, amused voice greeted from the other end of the line, „You had a favour to ask?“

„Yes, I do. We might have found a new lodger for you.“ –„Oh, really.“ You could taste his disinterest. „That’s not a favour,“ he stated. John cleared his throat. „She can’t pay.“

„Oh.“ Then, „She? Are you trying to get me a girlfriend?“ You let out a quiet _Ew_ , but he heard it anyway.  
    „Is she there? Yes, of course she is. And since you haven’t told me her name, I probably don’t even know her. She sounds very young, are you-“ – „Yes, Sherlock, just hold on. She’s about eighteen and homeless.“ – „So?“ – „ _So,_ you’re helping her out a bit.“

You were starting to get annoyed. „I’m nineteen. And see, he doesn’t want to, so just-“ But you were interrupted by the detective. „Wait, I know you, don’t I?“ Your heart started to beat faster. _Please don’t remember me._  
    „Yes, yes I do! Always hanging around with that guy and his cluster. The clever one. Interesting guy. I never could _quite_ prove him guilty... Paul, was it?“

Mary gasped.  
    „Oh, they didn’t know.“ You could literally hear him smirk. „Was he the one that attacked you?“ You were caught off guard. „How did you-“ – „Oh, its obvious, really. John never-“ But he was cut off by the doctor.  
    „Shut up and don’t show off. You don’t need to make this any worse. Just for once, tell me clearly: Will you help her, yes or no?“ The answer took everyone by surprise.

„Yes, alright.“


	5. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reader meets Mrs Hudson and drinks tea with everyone in 221B Baker street's living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was quite difficult to write.  
> You'll get what's going on, though, so that's something, right? ...right? haha

Mary eyed you up and proclaimed „First off, we’re gonna buy you some more clothes.“  
    „Hold up, yeah? You’re not spending any more money on me!“ – „And let you turn up at Sherlock’s like this?“ John shook his head. „You can repay us once you have some money, if you like. Don’t even try to protest!“ he added when you opened your mouth to complain.

One hour later, Mary came home with two pairs of trousers, a bra, socks, t-shirts and a lot of pants. She’d initially wanted to take you with her but at the thought of so many people around you, the anxiety started to take hold of you again and she’d decided to leave you at home.

„That’s too much!“ you exclaimed but of course, she didn’t listen.  
    „Is there anything else you need?“

You remembered something. „My knife,“ you demanded.

John looked highly uncomfortable when he shook his head. „We can’t give you that.“  
    Your hands started trembling again and you felt sickness rising up your throat. „Please...“ It was the only thing you owned to protect, distract and calm yourself.  
    The nurse stepped towards you and caressed your arm, her fingers tracing the white and pink bumps of your skin. „We don’t want to give you the instrument to hurt yourself,“ she explained with a hint of sadness in her voice.

No, this couldn’t be true. Waves of fear closed over you and you stumbled backwards, hardly catching yourself before falling down. The blood pumped loudly in your ears, nearly driving you crazy.  
    ‚Just a little bit, please, just give me a bit,’ your thoughts screeched. You comforted yourself with promises.  
    ‚Later, later, later...’ you repeated over and over and your breaths calmed.

„What the _hell_  was that?“ John was by your side immediately, horror on his face, grabbing your shirt to prevent you from falling over.  
    You pulled yourself from his hands, still feeling a bit dizzy. This was only the beginning of the withdrawal.

You smiled mechanically. „It’s alright, just a... er...“ You didn’t really know what to say but luckily, Mary pitched in. „You don’t have to explain,“ she soothed and flashed her husband a warning glance.  
    „Look, the knife is still yours but we’ll give it to Sherlock until you get better,“ John proposed. You nodded. Whatever. You’ll find something else.

* * *

 

John unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street. You noticed that the knocker was askew and extended your hand to correct it, but he told you not to. You froze, confused. „Why?“  
    Mary overtook you and stepped into the foyer. „Long story. C’mon.“ But before you could follow her up the stairs, the door of the ground floor apartment opened and an old, friendly looking lady walked towards the couple with open arms.

„Oh, how lovely to see you two here! Are you visiting Sherlock?“ Then she spotted you, awkwardly trying to hide behind your fringe.  
    „And who is this pretty young woman?“ She shook your hand eagerly.  
    „(Y/N),“ you stuttered, completely overwhelmed by her brio. „I’m probably gonna live with Sherlock for a while.“ – „Oh, That's wonderful! I'm Mrs Hudson.“

She turned to John. „Isn’t she a bit young for him, this one?“ He snorted in disbelief. „She’s just a friend, Mrs Hudson. We don’t try to hook him up _all_  the time, you know.“ The elder lady just laughed and told you she was going to make some tea.

The three of you walked up the creaking stairs and into a dusty living room. It was stuffed with books, newspapers and things you weren’t quite sure what they were supposed to be. A tall man was standing on the couch, looking at a wall full of pictures and maps. He had scribbled all over them, the network of connections and crosses making sense only to him.

„Hello John, Mary,“ he greeted but didn’t turn around. „Have a seat, I’m sure Mrs Hudson is making some tea.“  
    Mary cut you off when you wanted to walk into the kitchen. „I wouldn’t go in there, just sit here.“ She led you to a beige chair and you knew now why she didn’t want you to go in the room that laid opposite you.

The whole room was a mess – scientific equipment was stacked on top of empty food containers that laid on the table; a toaster and several kettles stood between bottles containing mysterious liquids next to the sink.  
    „Jesus, Sherlock, I’m gone for a while and you let this place become an atomic bomb testing site!“ John exclaimed before withdrawing into quiet resignation. The he turned to you. „Whatever, I’m gonna show you where your space is. It’s my old bedroom.“

After settling in, you descended to the first floor again, finding everyone sitting down and drinking tea.  
    „Oh, (Y/N), here you go!“ Mrs Hudson smiled and handed you a brimful, steaming mug that you held firmly with both of your hands to prevent them from shaking. You sat down next to her on the sofa and gazed at Sherlock. He noticed that and furrowed is brows.

„So, (Y/N),“ he said and set down his empty cup „How did you convince John to letting you live with me? He thinks I can’t even look after myself.“ – „That’s because you _can’t_ ,“ the doctor said with a gentle smile.  
    The detective opened his mouth to say something else but his friend stopped him before he could even begin „No, Sherlock, I’ve told you, just this one time, please keep your deductions to yourself.“ He looked offended but obeyed.

You saw him examining your trembling fingertips but you shook your head slightly. ‚Please don’t tell them,’ you thought desperately and he must’ve seen the panic in your face so he kept quiet. No one seemed to have noticed your silent conversation, the were all chatting away. Especially Mrs Hudson seemed to enjoy tattling about anyone and everyone.


	6. Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seems to like her! Also, he knows the reader from past "purchases".  
> Hope you enjoy this really short chapter! :D

Before they left, Mary took you aside and looked intensely into your eyes. „It won’t be easy. Either me or John will come by every second day to help you with settling in. Ask Mrs Hudson to show you where to buy groceries as soon as you feel ready to go out. Oh, and (Y/N) –“ she added just before walking out the door, „don’t let Sherlock’s comments get to your head. You said you could deal with assholes and I trust you.“

You nodded and hugged her goodbye. John shook your hand and smiled. He seemed a bit concerned but you shot him a reassuring look and he relaxed.  
    „Don’t worry, John, thank you for everything.“ And then the house went quiet. You could hear the cabs and busses driving by on the road below and pushed the curtains aside slightly to watch the Watsons leave in their car.

„John used to do that too,“ you heard the detective say behind you while he was plucking a few strings on his violin.  
    „’Scuse me?“ You turned around, confused. You didn’t expect him to actually talk to you.  
    „Looking out of the window to watch people leave. He always did that.“ – „And you don’t do that?“ He looked up from the instrument and pursed his lips. „Maybe.“ Then he continued with his activity.

A few minutes went by where both remained silent. You wandered around the living room, picked up one of the two elephants from on top of the chimney and looked at the books on the shelves. And then, he broke the silence.

„What did he do to you?“ you twitched and put London A-Z back in its place. Annoyed, you turned around. „Stop asking stupid questions, we both know you’ve already figured it out.“  
    He got up and stood with his hands on his hips. „The first time we met, you put a knife to my throat. The second time, you came in Paul’s place to deliver information. And the third time, you brought me to him so he could give me the information himself. He’s a very careful person. So why did he let you go, I wonder? Unless you escaped...“

„You overestimate him,“ you scoffed „he’s not _that_  clever. He’s just good at his job. It wasn’t very hard to run away. Staying hidden is entirely something else.“

Sherlock took out your knife and waved it in front of your crossed arms. „Take it.“ Stunned, you took a step back and looked at him suspiciously. „John told you not to give it to me.“  
    He raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you don’t want it...“ – „Why would you give it to me? You know what I’d use it for.“

He smiled and looked slightly... sad? You had to be wrong, he wasn’t one for emotions.  
    „Yes, (Y/N), I know, but I also know you’ll find other knives in my kitchen to cut yourself with anyway. And this is your protection, so I want you to take it.“ A wave of relieve rolled over you. Finally someone who understood. This thumb-sized sharp thing meant everything to you. You grabbed it before he could have any second thoughts and put it in you back pocket.

“There’s something else,” he added before you could turn around and leave the room. “Cold turkey isn’t a very good idea.”  
    _God damnit_. How could you have thought he would just forget about that.  
    “I’m sure as hell not doing it voluntarily,” you mumbled irritated. He sighed and nodded. “I know. Do you want to borrow some from me?”

You faltered. “If John knew about this…” you hesitated.

“He isn’t gonna find out. Not even Mary noticed the signs. I have to admit, that surprised me a lot.” He suddenly seemed to realize that you were still there and stopped talking immediately as if he’d said to much.  
    “Well, I won’t say no to such an offer,” you laughed. In your head though, emotions rotated like a hurricane. ‘How nice of him’ – ‘He’d never do that without wanting something in return’ – ‘It’s later now, isn’t it? You said later. You promised’ – ‘He only wants you in his bed – naked’.

But as soon as the syringe and cocaine were in your hands, all your doubts vanished and your thoughts came to a rest. Finally.  
    Your hands trembled so heavily that you nearly missed the vein. In that moment of sheer panic, a whimper slipped past your lips.  
    “That’s enough, (Y/N). You’re supposed to lower the amount every time.” – “You don’t know to how much I’m used to,” you protested and tried to grab the equipment but missed. You arm felt limp to your side and you felt a few drops of blood run down your arm.

Sherlock put a bit of pressure on the wound to keep it from spilling. You hadn’t even realized that he’d left but when you opened your eyes, he was gone. You staggered up the narrow stairs to your room and fell into the pillowy depths of your bed.


	7. Scarlet Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader has a nightmare and Sherlock notices - of course.
> 
> (Catch up, Pilotjohnwatson and Pilotscienceofdeduction)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Sherlock - you know you love it :P

You woke up with a scream on your lips, your clothes drenched in sweat, arms caked with blood.  
    “No,” you whimpered and struggled out of your damp sheets. The nightmare was still there, vivid and filled with fear and hands. _Paul’s hands; touching you everywhere, beating, pinching_. Were you even awake yet? You could still feel him all over you.

Your hands were wet and you realized you had been scratching all this time. You stared at the scarlet on your fingers and tried to even your breaths. A small sob escaped your throat but you managed to supress the ones that wanted to follow. No need in waking anyone up over a simple nightmare and a bit of blood.

What time was it anyway? It was still dark outside, and the effect of the drug had already worn off. What remained was a slight feeling of relaxation and satisfaction. And, as always, the craving for more.  
    But right now, that was completely shoved in the background of your mind by the panic that consumed you. You opened the door and stumbled down the stairs, the wall supporting you whenever you leaned forward too far. Every time the wooden steps creaked, you paused and cringed.

‘Please don’t wake up,’ you thought over and over again. The thought of him seeing you like this sent shivers down your spine. What would he _think_? You were a fucking _freak_.

You finally arrived at the bathroom door. It was situated right next to Sherlock’s bedroom. Great.  
    You opened it as silently as possible, but it screeched like a dying cat all the same. If he did wake up, you could just tell him you had to go to the bathroom. People did that, right?

You locked the door and jumped into the shower. The water was cold at first, stinging your skin like ice, but it grew warmer soon enough. You watched as the ground at your feet went pink. Tears were streaming down your face, mixing in with the shower water.  
The scratches hurt like hell but at least they had stopped bleeding. You rinsed your (Y/H/C) hair and got out.

You didn’t know which towel was yours but they both smelled fresh. You just wrapped yourself in the darker one. The mirror was foggy, so you wiped your hand over it.  
    ‘I look like a corpse,’ you thought grimly. The whiteness of your skin emphasized the dark circles below your lifeless eyes. You caught yourself picking at the scabs and cursed. Why couldn’t you just help it?!

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. You jerked back against the wall, your fingers searching for your knife – that was in your room, obviously. But your breaths and heartbeat quickly calmed. There was only one person it could be and he wasn’t out to hurt you. Hopefully.

“(Y/N), what are you doing?”  
    Knowing the capacity of his brain, you decided to stick to the truth as much as possible.

“I had a shower. I was very sweaty and couldn’t sleep, sorry to wake you,” you explained through the closed door.  
    “You were screaming.” Of _course_  he’d heard it, of course. “Don’t pry!” You hoped that would be enough to make him go away. And really, you heard footsteps leaving the scene. You started to get dressed and were halfway done, when the steps returned.

“Why is there blood on the wall?” he shouted and tried to force the door open.  
    “Stop!”, you screeched in panic, “I’m changing! Just wait, I’m coming out in a second.” You didn’t like the idea of a confrontation and you were pretty sure Sherlock didn’t either. But apparently he was as stubborn as he was clever, because when you finally opened the door, he was still standing there.

“Why were you bleeding?” he asked with fury in his eyes. “I gave you my cocaine and you _still_  cut yourself?! Is this the thanks I get?”  
    Surprised at his sudden outburst of emotions, you took a step beck before getting angry, too. “Don’t be so quick to judge. I didn’t _cut myself_! I had a nightmare and woke up with bleeding arms! The coke probably numbed the pain of my fingernails, so just shut your-“ you immediately stopped talking when he grabbed your hand.

The memories came instantly, like a switch had been turned. He noticed how you tried to pull free, how your eyes were filled with fear and disgust, but that didn’t stop him from pulling back your sleeves. He breathed a sigh of relief. They really were just scratches.  
    “I’ll bandage it,” he offered. But you couldn’t hear him over the sound of Paul’s laughter, so he simply dragged you into the living room and turned on the light. The clock showed 4am.

He set you down on the couch and disappeared into the bathroom to get the first aid kit. Your eyes were closed shut and you could feel every fiber of your body trembling. But there was no more laughter, just the calming pitter-patter of the rain on the windows. And the more you focused on the drops hitting the glass, the easier it was to breathe.

The detective worked wordlessly. When he finished, he walked to the window and just stood there, hands behind his back, staring at the outside, constantly moving world.  
    The orange light from the street lamps shone on his features and from where you sat, it looked like he was staring right into a fire.


	8. Molly Hooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader meets Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter looks really weird. Don't even worry, I've got everything under control including my life

“Sherlock?”

    He turned turned around to face you, expression blank and lips pressed to a thin line. “What is it?”

    You fumbled with your words before eventually gathering the courage to ask, “Is there any chance I could get some more?”

 

Deadly silence. He turned back to the window. “Absolutely not.” – “Sherlock, goddamnit! I need something to distract myself with! _Please_?” You couldn’t believe you were actually begging now.

 

“Good, ‘cause I’ve got a case,” he replied with a satisfied smile, walked to his desk and opened his laptop. “Oh, well, that’s not _quite_ what I meant…”

    He held up a hand to shush you. “Trust me, it works.” – “Well, yes, for you maybe. I’m not a mastermind, I’ll just be bored as fuck.”

 

Taking his coat, he turned around and said with a mysterius grin, “No you won’t. We’re going to the morgue.” _Sounds like fun._

* * *

 

The streets were completely empty (if you didn’t count the drunk teenagers). It wasn’t raining anymore, just mizzling. The gentle rain formed little see-through pearls in your hair and lashes.

    “Not long now.” You could hardly make out the words, they were muffled by the turned up collar. He was heading straight towards a very wide building with the letters _St. Bartholomew's Hospital_ on its side.

 

“This is the oldest hospital in England, today only used for research. And storing dead bodies, of course,” he explained briefly. You furrowed your brows. “That’s real nice and all, but how do we get in? You’re not exactly a scientist if I’m not mistaken,” you quipped.

    He just jangled with the keys.

    “Do I _want_ to know how you got them?” you sighed as he unlocked the back door. “I didn’t steal them if that’s what you’re implying.”

 

* * *

 

You entered some sort of lab, but it was hard to tell, what was being researched because it was such a mess. Sherlock’s, probably.

    “Who _the hell_ are you?” You let out a short scream and flinched back so abruptly that you bumped into a glass bottle that shattered on the floor.

 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you exclaimed and fell on your knees to collect the slivers.

    “She’s with me,” Sherlock reassured the woman behind you. “That’s Molly Hooper. Molly, that’s (Y/N). She’s my new lodger.”

    Molly was a bit confused at the late-night intrusion but offered a handshake. You were carrying so much broken glass that you could only nod at her.

 

“Uh, Sherlock, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?” – “What are _you_ doing here in the middle of the night?”

    She got more and more nervous by the second and stuttered, “You know very well that I sometimes do nightshifts.” Her insecurity caused you to look up from your task. Did she… _fancy_ him? _Him_?

 

“We need to look at some bodies,” he demanded, “Arthur Middly and Richard Simmons. They were brought in yesterday.”

    Molly smiled unsure and said, “Those are my cases, yes.” Then it began to dawn on her. “You _knew_ they were in my files. You _knew_ I would be here tonight, so you came because no one else would let you see them,” she huffed.

 

Sherlock nodded expectantly. She turned around and unlocked the door to the morgue. You arched your brows at him and he winked.

    As he was looking at the bodies, both young with short brown hair, Molly stepped next to you.

    “So, you live with him?” she asked and smiled lightly. “Aren’t you a bit young to be his girlfriend?”

 

You snorted. “Yes, I am. That’s why I’m _not_. I’m a friend of John and Mary’s but Sherlock had a free bedroom.” Her face lightened up when you mentioned the Watson’s. Sherlock murmured, “You’re not quite a _friend_ yet…”, but you both chose to ignore him.

    “Oh! So – (Y/N), was it? – are you his new assistant?” – “No, I was just bored,” you replied with a giggle.

    “Well, I’m sure he can work alone. I’ll make us some coffee,” Molly offered and nodded. You left the cold, white room and walked alongside her down the dull hallway, towards the lab where you’d come from.

 

She handed you the steaming mug and although you sipped very carefully, you promptly burnt your tongue. “He’s quite mean to you.” The words had slipped past your lips before you could prevent it and you could’ve hit yourself for your stupidity. _Think before you speak, damnit._

    She clutched her cup firmly and looked down on the table. When she looked up again, smiling robotically and she mumbled, “Yes, he’s _quite mean_ to everyone. But in his heart, he’s a good man.” Her smile instantly became sincerer.

    “Yes, he is. I can’t even pay for the room and he didn’t complain about that for a second.” She rubbed your arm with her thumb and you sat in silence until Sherlock entered the lab.


	9. The Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some case solving and protective Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I googled Richard Simmons and realized he's and actor/comedian... Oh well.

“Make me some coffee,” Sherlock demanded when he brushed past you and Molly.  
    “No way,” you quipped and winked at your new friend. She laughed and turned to Sherlock, who looked at you in sheer and utter annoyance. “I’ll send you back to John, you’re way too teenage-y for me…” With a sigh, he turned back to the microscope.

“What’re you even looking for?” you enquired and stepped next to him.  
    “Molly, please take her for another tea or whatever it is you women do.” But the pathologist just smiled shyly and stayed where she was. Sherlock seemed baffled at what was happening and turned to face you again.

“You’re not good for her, _teenager_!” he feigned angry, but a light smile crossed his lips. You supressed your _“I’m 19!”_ and asked, “So? What are those two lads in the morgue about?”

It was Molly who answered. “Arthur Middly and Richard Simmons. They both died – or rather killed themselves – at the same time with the same amount of cocaine. They have nothing in common, yet they died so similarly that there has to be _something_.”  
    Sherlock snorted and shook his head. “Wrong.”  
    Molly rolled her eyes and said, “Enlighten us then.”

“They didn’t kill themselves, they were killed. They both weren’t addicts, so how would they find their vein so easily? From experience, I can assure you that it’s not a simple thing to do, especially with Arthur’s veins. But there was no struggle, no wrong hits; whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.” – “So who was it?” you asked, trying to hide how impressed you were.  
    “That’s what I’m going to find out, if you would just _give me some space_.”

You shrugged and went back to the table.  
    “Do you still have the rest of the cocaine they used?” Sherlock muttered in concentration. Molly nodded hesitantly and handed him two bags. They each contained a small vial with a transparent liquid.  
    “I know, what you’re going to say, Sherlock,” she stated, “they didn’t use enough to die.”  
    “Unless,” you jumped in, “they were already high when they killed themselv- I mean, when they were killed. But since they weren’t addicts, how did they get it into their body?”

Sherlock looked at you, slightly impressed. “Yes, exactly. Molly, were there any traces in their mouths or noses?” But she negated.  
    “Then those weren’t the only vials they used. Are you sure there weren’t any more? Was it Anderson who lead the team?” – “Sherlock…” Molly warned.

“Maybe they were blackmailed. _We’ll kill and make it look like an accident if you tell anyone anything_ and oops, they said something,” you thought aloud.  
    “They had no connection,” Molly reminded you but Sherlock threw up his hands. “There has to be!”

You skimmed through the photographs when you suddenly noticed something.  
    “Hey, I think I know his brother!” you exclaimed and grabbed Richard Simmons’s portrait. Both turned to you and Sherlock glared at with disbelief.  
    “Are you sure? A lot of people look alike,” he sad with doubt in his voice.

The memory became clearer to you now. “Yes, I’m sure! He came by one time to take him home, but his brother – Alex – fought _really_ hard and fled the alley. I mean, he punched him and everything. I didn’t see either of them again after that.”

There was a moment of silence where they both looked at you in shock, then Sherlock laughed triumphantly and grabbed you by the shoulders. “HA! Of course! Molly, check if Arthur had a homeless relative. It seems you’re not completely useless after all, (Y/N)!”

* * *

 

Only a few minutes later, Molly printed something from the computer and showed it to the detective.  
    He looked at the paper, then at you and then back at the paper again and explained, “Arthur had a sister, Lisa, she isn’t homeless, at least not in the records, but I’m sure, if we did some research, we would find something. Both, Alex and Lisa, were imprisoned for smuggling illegal substances.”

You shivered. “That’s what Paul does.” Sherlock looked at you with an unreadable expression, “I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with him.”  
    Molly didn’t ask about him and you were so thankful you wanted to hug her.  
    “I think we’ll visit two certain convicts tomorrow,” he stated and left without another word.

You turned around and smiled apologetically at Molly.  
    “Thanks for the tea and stuff. Don’t listen to the asshole, you’re wonderful,” you shouted before exiting the lab and running to catch up with the tall man.

* * *

 

You woke up from someone screaming, and when you felt the tears on your cheeks you realized that it had been you. The dregs of your nightmare still clung to your mind and you had to force yourself to swallow the sickness that was rising in your throat.

‘He’s not here, you’re safe,’ you silently chanted over and over again before getting on your shaky legs and wandering down to the bathroom, where you emptied the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl. Drops of sweat and tears rolled down your cheeks and neck as you leaned your back against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall.

You felt Paul’s hands again, forcing your thighs apart, tearing at your pants. A cry of fear slipped past your lips, followed by quiet sobs.

Sherlock knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”  
    You wanted to protest, but no words formed in your mouth. It was as if you had forgotten how to speak.  
    He opened to door and turned on the light. Then he levelled with you and said, “You were screaming again.” You just nodded, still unable to say anything. He handed you a wet towel to clean your face with but you looked right through it, still shaking and gasping.

“Alright, that’s it, you’re coming with me.” He placed his hands under your shoulders and knees, lifted you up and carried you into the living room where he set you on the couch. Then he rubbed your mouth with the towel and sat down opposed to you.

“You need to see someone about this,” he said softly. You wanted to say no, desperately fought for your voice, but you remained silent. It wasn’t only Paul’s hands now, it was his whole body, pressing you to the ground. The blood pumped loudly in your ears and you gritted your teeth.

“(Y/N)?” Sherlock proceeded to say something, but you couldn’t hear him. Your own screams filled your ears, although your mouth was shut.

Suddenly, there was pain and you were back. “Did you just slap me?” you shouted angrily, before realizing what had happened. “Thank you,” you added and covered your eyes in guilt. How fucking _embarrassing_.  
    He observed you for a moment and nodded satisfied. He handed you a glass of water and, noticing your thirst, you chugged it. “Can I get some more?” you asked.

“What, cocaine or water?” he quipped. “Both,” you groaned with a light smile. He refilled your glass and hesitantly patted your shoulder.  
    “We’ll leave soon,” he told you and disappeared into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if Sherlock gets _too_ OOC. I feel like I'm getting a bit carried away


	10. H.M. Prison Belmarsh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the reader meet with Alex Simmons and he reveals what had been happening between him and his brother.

Just after you’d exited the cab at H.M. Prison Belmarsh, you heard a muffled buzzing from Sherlock’s coat. “I think someone’s calling you.”  
    He handed you the phone without even looking at it. “It’s for you.”

 _John_ flashed on the screen. You pressed the phone against you ear and said, hurrying to catch up with the detective, “Yes, hello?”

John on the other end let out a breath of relief. “Jesus Christ, I was worried! I’m at Baker Street, where the _hell_ are you?” he exclaimed.  
    “We’re at the Belmarsh Prison,” and, realizing how alarming that must’ve sounded, you added, “For a case! Sherlock’s taking me there.”

Silence. Then, “Get him on the phone.”  
    His voice sounded so threatening that you involuntarily shuddered and instantly did as you were told.  
    John’s voice was so loud, that you could every word clearly, even though Sherlock had taken a step away from you.

“Sherlock, you _git_! How _dare_ you take her on a case with you? You fucking machine! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT SHE’S BEEN THROUGH?! I _KNEW_ WE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT HER WITH YOU! That’s it. Don’t go in, you hear me?! I’m coming to get her, _you stay outside_.” There was a Click when he hung up and Sherlock looked at the mobile in his hands, baffled, mouth slightly hanging open, before he caught himself and shook his head slightly.

“He’s worried,” he stated unnecessarily. He put the phone back in his pocket and walked towards the prison.  
    You raised your eyebrows. “You’re just gonna go in? He’s pretty angry,” you said hesitantly. He smiled cheekily and opened the front door. “You’re alright, aren’t you?” But it wasn’t a question. You followed him into the yellow hall and heard the door loudly fall into its frame.

* * *

 

You had no idea where Sherlock had gotten the badge from, but it obviously wasn’t his as everyone was addressing him as DI Lestrade. You were introduced as his assistant. Amazed that no one seemed to question your age or clothes, you stepped into the visitor’s room.

It was clean but very bleak. Chairs and tables strung together, a decrepit snack machine was situated in a corner and in the middle of the room, completely alone, sat Alex Simmons. He was more muscular than when you’d last seen him and a white scar parted his bottom lip. He looked up when the door shut behind you and a flash of recognition appeared on his face.  
    You lightly shook your head and pleaded him with your eyes not to reveal your true identity.

“My name is DI Lestrade, this is my assistant Ms Patricks. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you about your brother.”  
    Alex’ features immediately turned defensive. “He killed himself,” he pressed between gritted teeth. He shot you a hateful glare and his face clearly said _I expected better of you_.

“We are not so sure about that,” Sherlock replied with professional calm. “But we thought you might know more. He tried to get you off the streets, is that right?”  
    That was the moment Alex jumped up and pointed his finger at you. “Why have you told him that? You _snitch_! How fucking _could_  you-“ But he was pressed onto his seat by the guards.  
    “It’s alright!” shouted Sherlock when they made attempts to take him back to his cell, “We need to question him further.”

“Alex, please. We’re only trying to find out what happened to your brother,” you tried to explain, but he didn’t look at you.  
    “You know something. Tell us,” the detective demanded. And eventually, Alex did.

“He was desperate. Wanted me to come home, stop smuggling and stuff. So he went to my boss, Paul,” he shot you a quick glance and you felt anger boiling up in your stomach, “and promised him money for… well, me. But money wasn’t enough for him. I don’t know, what he demanded, but Richard was prepared to stoop to incredible lengths for me.

“He came crashing into my hiding place one night, sobbing and yelling at me to get up. He looked horrible, like he hadn’t slept in days. But I sent him away.” You could clearly hear the regret and sadness in his voice.  
    “A few weeks later, I got caught and landed in here. Then they told me my brother had killed himself, but I _knew_ that it had been Paul.” His face was red with rage and his hands clamped to the corners of the table, as if he wanted to lift it and throw it across the room.

Sherlock leaned back, a pleased grin on plastered on his face. He looked at you and you couldn’t help but to smile back. Maybe this time, you _finally_ had him. This time, he would go to jail for what he did.  
    You had expected fear to rise in you, for your breaths to shorten in panic, but all you could feel was triumph. It was relieving.  
    “We’ll get him,” Sherlock told you when you made your way toward the exit, patting your shoulder. You got the sneaking suspicion that he had known from the beginning where this case would be going and he brought you with him for you to finally get your revenge. _Maybe he isn’t such an asshole after all._

* * *

 

John was already waiting outside. When he stomped towards you foaming with anger, you couldn’t bury the thought that he somehow reminded you of a soldier.

    “Sherlock, how _could_ you!” he shouted, not caring that every head in the street turned towards them.  
    “Look at her, she’s _fine_ ,“ – “No, she's not! Dragging her outside, to a _prison_ of all places, you stupid…” he stopped when you tugged at his sleeve.

“John, let me have a say in this! Sherlock’s right, _I’m fine_! It’s a good distraction, I’m actually growing to like it, so please, don’t worry!” He deflated and grabbed your arm.  
    “(Y/N), are you sure? I can’t boss you around, but solving crimes with Sherlock is dangerous and you’ve been through enough-“

Anger bubbled to the surface again, but you did your best to contain it. “Stop it! I don’t need – I don’t _want_ your fucking pity! At least _someone_ got that!” The doctor looked at Sherlock, perplexed. A series of emotions flashed on his face but then, finally, he nodded.

* * *

 

When you entered into the living room, Mary was already waiting for you on the beige chair. She jumped up when she saw and pulled you into a tight hug.  
    “I’m glad you’re alright,” she said softly and you grinned at her, “Always.”

“I brought you stuff; I put it on your bed. C’mon up, I’ll show you.” You followed her but as soon as you were in the room, she shut the door behind you. Irrational panic rose in your chest as the flashback hit, but you were able to keep it in the back of your mind.  
    Mary noticed it and immediately started to caress you arm. “There’s blood on your bed. Care to explain?”

Your heart sank and you tried without success to swallow the lump in your throat. “It’s nothing, I just… I had a nightmare and when I woke up, it just… it was there and I-I…” You felt so weak and fragile and you _hated_ it. You hated her seeing you like that.

“Alright, I was just, worried, that’s all…” She pulled you into another hug and you were worried that she might feel the knife in your pocket, but if she did she said nothing.  
    “Sherlock is really nice,” you said and she laughed surprised, unsure if you were serious or not. “He is?” – “Yeah, he mostly just leaves me alone, but he never lets me get bored.”  
    She smiled brightly. “That’s wonderful.”

They left at about four, after making sure that you had eaten something.  
    As soon as they were gone, Sherlock pulled out his violin and started to play a strange tune. You’d never heard it before and you suspected that he was making it up in the spot.

“Take my phone. It’s on the kitchen table.” You obeyed with slight confusion.  
    “Got it? Send a text to Lestrade. **Baker St, now. I’ve solved the case Molly told you about**.”  
    “Hang on, Lestrade? Isn’t that the badge you stole?” you asked. He nodded, eyes still fixed on the window. You added **Also, I’ve got your badge, come and get it** and hit send.

“You typed something else,” Sherlock turned around with an irritated look and grabbed the device out of your hands. He read the sent message and furrowed his brows.  
    “Oh, for God’s sake, you _teenager_!”


	11. Greg Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade drops in for a quick visit. The reader's got serious mood swings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a really short chapter I'm posting before going to bed :)
> 
> Also, I just realized that Sherlock says about Paul that he could never prove him guilty, yet he bought drugs from him... Let's just ignore that plothole, shall we. I planned everything in advance, of course. Everything. In advance.

Greg Lestrade was not what you expected. You thought he’d be like Sherlock – cold, distant and indifferent. (Although, to be honest, he hadn’t been like that around _you_.)  
    He was about six or seven years older than the detective and had short, grey hair.

“Are you going return my badge?” he demanded, his arms crossed on his chest.  
    Sherlock snarled and threw it on the ground before him, eyes fixed on the photos he had hung on the wall. Lestrade picked it up and stepped next to him.

“They both had drug-smuggling, homeless siblings,” Sherlock explained and pointed at the photographs of Arthur Middly and Richard Simmons. “Desperate to get them off the streets, they went to their boss – a man by the name of Paul, who made them do something to release Alex and Lisa, but when they failed him, he sent someone to kill them and make it look like a suicide. He wasn’t very good at it, though, obviously much too stupid for _me_. Alex told us a lot, but we weren’t able to visit Lisa.”

Lestrade nodded. “But what did he ask in return? Smuggle? Murder?”  
    “Well, he is a very brutal man and they were really desperate, so I would guess so,” Sherlock replied.  
    Lestrade snorted. “You would _guess_ so? Are you telling me you _don’t know_?” Sherlock was squirming under the DI’s mocking grin. “That’s not what I’m saying…”

Lestrade laughed loudly. “Of course you are! Please say that again so that I can record it and send to everyone at the station…”

You stepped out of the kitchen with a sandwich in your left hand and a glass of water in your right and Lestrade flinched.  
    “Who are you? Have you been there the whole time?” he yelled, horrified that he might’ve revealed confidential information. Sherlock grinned and answered for you, because you had taken a big bite out of your bread.

“She’s my lodger, Gra- Greg. She works with me.” Lestrade’s eyes widened.  
    “How old are you?” – “Nineteen,” you said, still chewing, “My name is (Y/N).”  
    “Greg,” he replied and offered a handshake before realizing that you didn’t have a free hand to give. “Aren’t you a bit young to work with Sherlock? Oh, I’m sorry, you must be a relative!”

You exchanged a quick look with Sherlock, who was still smiling. “Yes, I’m his cousin,” you said in dead serious tone. Sherlock had to turn away because he almost couldn’t contain his laughter. Greg didn’t notice any of this.

“I’m going to try to talk to Lisa. Perhaps she knows more. Nice meeting you, (Y/N).” He waved goodbye and promised to call as soon as he knew more.

When the door closed, Sherlock turned back to you and snorted, “Why did you tell him that you are my cousin?” – “He just believed it,” you laughed, “I haven’t had so much fun in a while!”

* * *

 

You thought, maybe you’d finally gotten over being scared of the nightmares, but there was no getting used to the cold sweat on your whole body, the scratching and the cry of horror before you finally found yourself in your bed again.  
    You rubbed your closed eyes and tried to calm your irrationally fast beating heart. You could hear birds chirping outside your window – at least it was already morning.

“Shower,” you mumbled and walked down the stairs. Sherlock was still standing in front of the wall, like he had been six hours ago when you’d finally gotten yourself to go to bed.

He didn’t notice you coming down, he was too focused – at least that was what you thought.  
    “This has to stop.” His voice broke the silence like a sharp knife.

“What do you mean?” you asked and yawned. He huffed and turned around.  
    “You know exactly what I mean. Every night, you scream your lungs out – I’m surprised Mrs Hudson hasn’t complained yet! This cannot continue, (Y/N). It’s not healthy.”

“Yes _Sir_ ,” you jeered and locked yourself in the bathroom. He pounded on the door. “I mean it! I am going to call John!”  
    “You wouldn’t!” you yelled back, suddenly very angry.  
    “Oh yes, I’m already holding the phone… I’m dialling!” You unlocked the door and wrested the phone from his hands, cancelling the outgoing call.

“You _fucker_!” you screamed. He wasn’t fazed, his face showed no emotion. There he was, the Cold Man.  
    “Feeling the withdrawal already, are we?” he asked in a steady voice, oppositional to your shaking frame. Your eyes started to water, but you were able hold the tears back. It was true – you were dizzy, angry and restless. You needed a fix.

“ _Please_ , Sherlock…” – “No, you know the rules. Three more days.”  
    Your fist hit the doorframe. “I can’t do three more days!” He grabbed your shoulders and exhaled. “Yes, you can. Now go and take that shower.”


	12. In Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock does nothing, the reader takes off to fight Paul herself.

“I’m hungry.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He was still standing in front of the wall, lids closed but pupils moving.  
    “Sherlock!” Still nothing. The only things in the fridge were butter and a few Tupperwares full of non-edible things (you didn’t really want to investigate further). There was no toast, vegetables or even pasta. How the hell did he survive?

“Sherlock, I’m gonna get some groceries,” you said before taking your jumper and nicking his credit card. You were scared, but you were also very hungry. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening.

You knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door for her to give you directions. She opened and smiled when she recognized you. “(Y/N)! Well, how are you?”  
    You weren’t in the mood for small talk, so you just got straight to the point. “I’m hungry and gonna get some food. Where’s the store?” you asked. That had been rude and you internally flinched at the slightly huffy look she gave you.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go out yet? You can borrow some food from me…” – “Jesus Christ, please just tell me where the next store is!” You were sick and tired of people pitying you.  
    “Just walk down the road, then turn left at Polish Gardens; it’s on the right, next to a hair salon,” she told you hesitantly. She closed the door mumbling something like “How did Sherlock allow this”.

You bought toast, jam, cold meat, orange juice and gummy bears – which you ate on the short way back to the flat. All the way, your heart was pounding so fast that you were afraid it could explode any second, and you kept your face down out of fear someone could recognize you, but that was all. No panic attack, no breathing too fast and getting dizzy.  
    ‘I think you can call that progress,’ you thought pleased.

You bumped into a young man when you wanted to turn into 221B Baker Street and dropped the orange juice. It exploded on the floor, leaving you and him with wet trousers.  
    “Shit,” you huffed and shot him an angry glare. He mumbled and apology and hurried on. “Fucker,” you mumbled and opened the front door. You were looking forward to that juice.

* * *

 

“So, did he?”

    You put the groceries into the fridge and turned around. “Did he what?” you asked with a confused grin. Sherlock threw his hands into the air, obviously very annoyed, and turned around. “I just asked you a question…” He looked you over. “Oh, you’ve bought some food. I didn’t notice you leaving.”

You snorted. “Of course you didn’t. What was your question?”  
    He turned back to the wall. You noticed that there were only two photos left, the two victims’. “Did he ever mention either Alex or Lisa when you still were together?”  
    You furrowed your brows to mask your anger. He _was_ an asshole. “I don’t remember.”  
    “Then think harder!” – “No, thank you. Don’t really fancy it.”

He grabbed your shoulder. “This is important! Did he ever talk about them?” Your attempts to pull free failed miserably. And suddenly, without a warning, it was Paul holding you, his nails prodding into your skin.  
    “Let go!” you cried and tried to hit him, but your fists only hit air. Sherlock had already backed up, holding his hands up in surrender, a shocked look on his face, but Paul was still there.

“(Y/N).” You were back. You hadn’t been too far gone – he didn’t have to slap you – but it had been enough to make you furious.  
    “How _dare_ you? I told you I didn’t want to, you idiot, why couldn’t you just listen _for once_ …” He let you scream at him, enduring your fit of rage with guilt on his face. He didn’t apologize, and you ran up the stairs to destroy your pillow with your fists or something.

But your anger dissolved quickly. You knew that he could be so much meaner to you – not deliberately of course – but he chose to take care. He’d probably just slipped for a second.  
    You took out the knife from your back pocket and played around with it for a bit (meaning, throwing it against the wall to see if it would stick).

When you returned to the living room, Sherlock was reading something on his computer. He didn’t look up when you entered, but he pressed his lips into a tight line and that gave away that he’d noticed you.  
    The clock said 7pm and it was already getting dark outside. “I’ve got an idea. Well, I’ve had it for a long time now, but I thought I’d come up with something else…”  
    Relieved that he was still talking to you, you shrugged and said, “Shoot.”

“I can find Paul and bring him to confess, but I need bait. I need you to go in there. He’ll talk to you, and if I can record the conver-“ He stopped when he saw your expression. Panic churned up in your chest and you immediately started shaking.

“Never mind then,” he mumbled and turned back to the screen.  
    But in spite of your fear, you felt the need to do this. It meant getting revenge. It meant _peace_. ”Sherlock, I’ll do it.” But he just laughed. “Absolutely not. I won’t let you meet him in your current state. You’ll be way too afraid to be useful. No, (Y/N), we have time.”

You pouted. You knew you could do it, you just needed a little something to get you focused. Something like cocaine. But you didn’t know where he’d hidden it and there was no way he wouldn’t notice if you searched for it. You had to come up with a plan.

* * *

 

 

You bought a small recorder, about the size of your pinkie, and sewed it into your bra. It was kind of noticeable, but if you weren’t looking for it, you probably wouldn’t think anything of it. The cocaine would you would just have to ditch. You waited until Sherlock had fallen back into his trance to leave the house.

He had been bugging you all evening – he knew something was wrong, but you brushed it off as withdrawal effects. At first he didn’t believe you, kept asking you why you were so nervous, but he eventually gave up. He had noticed the bump on your back, you were sure of it, but he didn’t mention doing so. Maybe he just didn’t care.

The air was already icy and at first you regretted not bringing a jacket, but then you remembered that you were supposed to look homeless. You turned the recorder on before turning into a side alley. You felt calm and, for some reason superior. You _knew_ you could do this.

But that feeling vanished when a familiar face stepped out from behind a dumpster. Orange juice guy. That was the moment your whole plan came crashing down. Of course, he was working for Paul, _of course he was_. This was all wrong. They knew everything. 

You turned on your heels but they were already behind you, the same guys that had raped you under the bridge. You screamed, but no one cared, no one _ever_ cared. You clenched your fists and felt the adrenalin shooting through your veins. A well-timed hit knocked out the guy that was holding your left arm, but there were so many more – _too many_.

There were no tears in your eyes, no fear in your mind, just one thought, suppressing everything else.

_GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT_

You were like a wolf on edge, hitting and kicking your way free. Time was slowed down, you could hear everything, see everything, smell everything. But you still had no chance. It was three to one.

“Get away from her.” Sherlock’s voice was so calm, you could taste the anger. A gun in his hand, he stood in the alleyway. No one dared to move. They released you and you stumbled towards the detective. There was movement behind him. The guy you’d knocked out earlier.

“Behind y-“

Too late. The thug hit his elbow so hard against Sherlock’s temple that he collapsed like a broken doll. A blood freezing _Crack_ echoed from the walls when his body hit the ground. They cuffed him to a downpipe.

You suddenly became aware of your situation. It hit you like a train. There was nobody left to save you now.

As they dragged you away, a cloth in your mouth and your hands bound, you couldn’t fight the tears anymore. A second, there was a glimmer of hope of escaping this hell after he was done with you, but it vanished quickly. You weren’t sure anymore if you wanted still be alive after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA, A CLIFFHANGER! Didn't see that coming, did you
> 
> jk please still love me


	13. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader is left alone with Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - there will be a lot of blood, graphic violence and rape.

“…lock! What happened? Are you aw…”

“…call John and an ambu…”

“…ay with me! Jesus, Sherlock, look a…”

When he finally fully woke up, it was to a splitting headache. His hands were free and someone was holding his back upright. _John_.  
    Lestrade was in front of him, back turned, loudly speaking on the phone to some of his colleagues at the station.

Sherlock pushed John aside and tried to stand on his own, but immediately staggered backwards. Using the wall as support, he tried to remember why he was here.  
    “Sherlock!” John exclaimed and tried to push him down again. “You need to sit down, you have a nasty concussion.” – “Yes, John, I know, I feel naus-“ But before he was able to finish, he emptied the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Greg turned around, handed him a tissue and looked at him with worry written all over his face. “What the fuck happened? You texted me not fifteen minutes ago to come here, saying you had Paul. How did _he_ outsmart _you_?”  
    Sherlock shook his head and instantly regretted the decision. “Not the problem. (Y/N) got here first.”

John licked his lips and looked at Lestrade with pure horror on his face.  
    “Your cousin (Y/N)?” asked Lestrade. John looked confused but decided to ignore him.  
    “What do you mean, she got here first, hm? Don’t tell me you let her come here _on her own_ , Sherlock, I am gonna break all your bones if you _just allowed_ this…” His voice gradually got louder and louder, but before he was properly screaming, Sherlock cut him off.

“She went here alone, but it was my fault, I should’ve known they would get her. However, that’s not important, you can be angry at me later. We need to go after th-“ Dry heave.  
    “ _You_ aren’t gonna go anywhere, you can barely walk,” said Lestrade but Sherlock waved his hand to shut him up, “We don’t have time. We need to find her _now_.” There was so much urgency in his voice that John and Greg, although they did not like the idea of Sherlock moving in his current state, gave in.

“I’ll have the police looking for her…” – “No use! We need Mary!” shouted Sherlock. Lestrade laughed confused.  
    “Mary?” John tilted his head and raised his eyebrows – he clearly didn’t like the idea, but he knew the detective was right.

* * *

 

They dragged you towards the flat of a blackmailed manager where Paul usually stayed. You knew it too well. He took you here one night and you learnt his true nature.

At first, he had been romantic, nice and he had cocaine, so you gladly stayed with him. You didn’t like how he called you _His_ but, well, he had cocaine. And after he’d raped you in that flat, you still stayed with him and endured his obsessive personality, because, you guessed it, he had cocaine.  
    But at some point, all the drugs in the world couldn’t numb the pain of your broken ribs, the emptiness in your stomach and the feeling of being _nothing_ , just being moved by strings he held in his fingers.

You knew that you had to leave, but he found you, _every single time_. All your friends turned out to be snitches if he offered them the right thing and eventually, there hadn’t been anymore hiding places left.

They threw you on a mattress, bound your feet and grinned at you maliciously. Paul stepped into the room.  
    “(Y/N), I’ve missed you,” he smiled and cupped your face in his hands. You were able to hold back the tears – you wouldn’t lose to him this time – and he took out the rag. “You won’t be able to talk with this, darling…”

You spat in his face and he wiped it off. “You haven’t changed a bit!” he laughed and pulled out the knife from your back pocket. That was when the panic set in, you frantically moved your body against your restraints, trying to get you hands or feet free, _anything at all_ , to get it back. He threw it behind his back and helped you sit up. “Are you not gonna say anything?”  
    You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of talking. Or crying, for that matter.

“My my, I’m disappointed. Well, anyway, your new _friend_ is gonna be out for a few hours but when he wakes up, we all know he’s gonna come lookin’ for you. And when he does, we’ll make him _watch_.” Your heart was pounding so loud in your ears that it was hard to understand him, but you’d heard enough to get what he was planning.  
    He turned towards his gang and told them leave you alone and guard the door. You were a tiny bit relieved. At least it would just be him. He was predictable. You knew him. Which, unfortunately, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to kill you.

He pulled his knife from his pocket and stroke its blade across your face. “I think, I’m gonna give you the same makeover you gave me,” he said in a honey-sweet voice and let the metal wander down your body. He stopped at your belly button.  
    “How deep do you think I can go until you scream? Or do you think I should cut off your toes first?” He was getting angry, carried away. Other people would call that _unpredictable_ , but you knew him well. He’d had it planned out hours ago already. He’d probably been jacking off to the thought of how he was going to punish you.

Without warning, he sliced open your cheek. It hurt, but it wasn’t too bad - until he deepened the cut and scratched at the exposed fat tissue with his fingers. You nearly screamed, but could hold yourself back by biting down on the inside of your other cheek.  
    “Now you look as pretty as me,” he jeered and kissed your dry lips. You tried to ignore the bursting pain in your whole head and bit down as hard as your jaw allowed. You bit all the way through his lips, spitting out a small piece of flesh. He yelled in surprise and fury and jerked back blood trickling down his chin.

“YOU FUCKING WHORE!” he cried, spitting crimson everywhere. You had thrown him off balance, crossed his plan. It felt like you were gaining a smidge of control – at least until he jabbed the knife through your shoulder. You could hear your shoulder blade crack and vomited all over your clothes. The pain was all you could think about, all you could _feel_ , but even now, you hadn’t let out the tiniest whimper. And you knew that confused him.

He pressed his dirty fingers into the new whole in your body and wiggled it around, trying to enlarge it. Then he stood up and started kicking you. Every blow was more painful than the one before, but soon, all the pain in your body started to melt together into one throbbing parasite.  
    You felt the warm blood run down your arm, too much of it. At least you hoped it was too much, because that would give your body the possibility to pass out.

Some of your ribs broke, but none punctuated the lung – as far as you could tell at least; you weren’t a doctor. As you didn’t dare to swallow because it could increase the pain, you started drooling.

He grabbed your arm – the one from the stabbed shoulder - and looked at your scabs and scars.  
    “You _freak_. Couldn’t resist it, huh? Well, if that is what you crave, I will give it to you…” And with this statement, he started cutting you like you had done yourself so many times before. He reopened old scars, his movements almost _wary_ , like he was trying to please you (– now that you thought about it, maybe he _was_ ).  
    The shoulder had stopped spilling scarlet, as had his lip, and you felt disappointment fill you. Apparently, it wouldn’t be _this_ easy. When he finally came to a halt, your arm looked like a butchery – every inch of it was bleeding, white fat shining through the blood.

You still hadn’t said a word and Paul found himself getting _very_ impatient. The edges of your vision started to get spotty, but you could still see him set down the knife. He pulled down your pants and did what he'd probably been waiting for since this had begun.

Your scream tore the air. That just seemed to turn him on even more and you tried to kick him away, trying to squash his beloved dick, but your motions were too slow; you were too exhausted.

And then, _finally_ , you passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My family walked in all the time while I was writing this chapter and I had to close the program like I had been watching porn or something...


	14. Ditractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader starts getting worse and they others turn up at the wrong place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I put OOC Sherlock in the tags.
> 
> Also, warnings for violence, blood and referenced rape.

Greg paced around in his office while Sherlock was sitting on his desk, eyes closed but moving.  
    Mary was clutching her purse tightly – John knew there was a gun in there – and tried to keep her professional mask on. The DI hadn’t asked any questions till now and they both sure hoped it would stay that way.

“You know, if he takes any longer, we’ll recover a corpse,” Greg said in a quiet voice, leaning over to John. John swallowed. “He knows that.”  
    “She _will_ be as good as dead when we find her – if not worse,” Mary said and after a second of thinking added, “Although dead might not be the worse fate for her.” Her eyes were glassy as she was trying to hold back the panic. It wouldn’t do (Y/N) any good.

“FUCK!” John exclaimed and clenched his fists. “We’re useless!” He was so angry and worried, he was shaking.  
    Sherlock opened his eyes. “Two options,” he said, “It's either the sewer under Pile Street or a flat near Leinster Gardens Paul uses to sleep in. Lestrade, check the scan for reported disturbances – screams, gunshots, anything from where I told you.” Greg nodded and  disappeared into another room.

John looked his friend over. “Are you worried?” he asked when he saw Sherlock’s fingers fidgeting with a paperclip.  
    He sighed and looked at him. “Seriously? You’re asking me if I’m worried?” Sherlock shouted in a sudden outburst of rage and helplessness, “It’s _my_ fault she’s in there! I thought I could handle it, I’m such an _idiot_!”

John and Mary were both baffled when they heard Sherlock call himself an idiot. “He really is worried,” the nurse whispered. John blinked his tears away, trying to bury his fear, and she squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

Greg returned. “We’ve got disturbances at both places, cries for help in the sewers and screams from the flat. We need to decide where we – and a patrol and an ambulance – want to go.”  
    “The sewers,” Sherlock said without hesitation and grabbed his coat. “He would never expose his sleeping place like that. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

You could feel the blood trickling between your legs from the re-opened injuries. Everything hurt, especially your shoulder and chest. Slowly, you opened your eyes.

You were alone in the room, hands and feet tied. The cold from the early autumn night crept into your flesh, making you shiver. How long had you been out? An hour? Two?  
    But now that you thought about it, it had probably been less than 60 minutes. You would be dead from blood loss if it had been longer, at least that was what you estimated. You needed to stop the bleeding somehow.  
    Surprised at how sharp your senses and how strong your will to survive still was, you tried to wriggle your hands free. You managed to grad the cloth that had been in your mouth and stuff it into your vagina. You tried to ignore the pain, but couldn’t help a whimper. This was _hell_.

You tried to reach your feet to unbind them, but a sharp pain from your chest sent you back into unconscious.

* * *

 

Someone caressed your cheek. You jerked back – and regretted that decision instantly. You felt your broken ribs grind against each other and cried out.  
    “Now now, don’t overdo yourself.” Paul’s voice was warm, almost nice. It was sickening to know that he really meant it. In his own insane way, he loved you.  
    “Untie me,” you demanded and tried to make your voice sound strong, failing miserably.

“If you suck my cock.”  
    You flinched. “Never.” – “Still the fighter, huh? Do I gotta teach you a few rules?” You felt bile rising in your throat when he left the room.  
    ‘I can’t take much more,’ you thought bitterly. It wasn’t a desperate cry or a plea, it was the simple truth. Your body was worn out and injured, it wouldn’t be able to endure any more _games_.

He returned with his knife, but he didn’t seem eager to use it yet. Instead, he pulled out a lighter. “Let’s see if that’ll break you,” he grinned and brought the flame close to your stomach. You felt the urge to draw back again, but you knew it wouldn’t change anything. When the fire liked at your skin, burning it to bubbles, you screamed again.  
    “No, please!” you cried, tears streaking down your face. When he finally stopped, you gasped for air just to let out another scream. Paul used that opportunity to stuff another rag into your wide open mouth. “Can’t be attracting police now, can we?” he laughed.

He then brought the lighter near your exposed flesh again and you couldn’t keep up your act any longer. “No, please, I’ll do anything!” Your words were muffled by the fabric in your mouth, but he still understood.  
    Without another word, he untied his trousers. You closed your eyes in shame. At least this wouldn’t kill you.

“Swallow it,” he hissed but it was already too late. You’d spat the bitter white liquid on the floor next to you. Vomit followed. When you were done retching, he roughly pulled your head back by your hair.  
    “Listen, bitch: I’ll let that count but I won’t be so nice next time, got it?” You nodded, your panicked gaze still fixed on his face, getting ready for _any_ change of emotion.

As soon as he was out of the room, you laid back on the bloody mattress, heart and thoughts racing. ‘How am I gonna get out of here? I need to get my hands free somehow…’  
    You looked around the room for anything sharp. He’d taken your knife, of course. But if you could shatter the mirror on the opposite wall…

You managed to crawl forwards about two metres, but your ribs protested again and you went limp on the hard ground, breathing against the pain, unable to move any further.

* * *

 

“Sir, we did find a girl, but she doesn’t match your description. She says she got paid to scream really loud until the police came,” a policeman reported to Lestrade. Sherlock blanched.  
    “We’re in the wrong place.” Mary’s voice was shaking now. They all knew what that meant. The flat was on the other side of town, at least half an hour away.  
    “We need to leave right now,” Lestrade stated unnecessarily. The drove with sirens and for a few minutes, they were hopeful because Sherlock had told them that it would take 25 minutes, but when they arrived at an _Alternative Route_ sign and he had to add fifteen minutes to his calculations, the worry took over again.

* * *

 

You couldn’t care for the pain. If you wanted to get out of here alive, you needed to be stronger than this. But since crawling didn’t work, you tried to get to your feet. You rolled onto your stomach, biting the already swollen inside of your cheek again to prevent screams, and managed to pull yourself up into a kneeling position.  
    But you had to pause there. The pain was now rolling in excruciating waves through your body. Your vision got blurry and you felt your body slowly sinking towards the ground.

The only thing holding you upright was your sheer power of volition. If you fell down, you didn’t think you would be able to go through that whole agony again.  
    Dropping back on your butt, you quickly glanced at the door, but no one seemed to have noticed anything.  
    When you finally stood up, you felt like the main character in a war film, getting up after everyone believed him to be dead.

But then, the door opened.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Paul screamed and pushed you against the wall. You managed to stay upright, but a second hit made you sink back down.  
    _Nononono_. Everything you’d worked so hard for – gone. He was blindly kicking you, not caring what he hit. His plan had shattered to pieces but this time, you weren’t happy about it.  
    You felt a short, sharp pain deep in your chest and coughed up blood. You were going to die here.

* * *

 

“They’ll know that we’re coming,” Sherlock said, “but they won’t anticipate you, Mary. You’ll go in through the back – there’s a small window that leads into the basement of the building. From there, you can make your way up and surprise them. We’ll attract as much attention as possible from the front. John, you will go with her, (Y/N) will need a doctor.”  
    John’s expression darkened but he nodded. There was no time for a domestic quarrel right now. He would just have to suck it up.

“It’s very important that he sees me and all the policemen here. He’ll probably know how many are coming, that’s why we are not going to be sending any more in. If we’re lucky, he’ll come out himself, but anyone working for him is a threat. They’ll be carrying weapons, but we are too.”

Lestrade nodded and gave orders over the scan.  
    “We’re coming, (Y/N). Hold on a little longer,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, but John could make out the words.

“Why do you care so much about her? You usually don’t give a shit about other people,” John asked and furrowed his brows. “Hell, you even took her to the prison and shared all the information with her in order for her to _get revenge_ – I don’t get it.”  
    Sherlock fell silent after that, but Lestrade turned around with a confused grin, “So she isn’t his cousin?”

Mary snorted. “His _cousin_? Who gave you _that_ idea?” – “She did!”  
    Sherlock grinned. “Yeah, we had a laugh.” Then they all went back to their own thoughts.

“We’re almost there,” Lestrade announced. Mary and John grabbed their guns and left the car to get to the back of the house and Sherlock felt, for the first time in forever, adrenalin pumping through his veins. All or nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had my wisdom teeth removed today and am typing this with one hand (the other's holding the cold pack). I'm suddenly _so_ grateful to have two hands...


	15. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg, Sherlock, John and Mary make an attempt to save the reader from Paul's claws.

Mary and John reached the basement without any trouble. They initially thought that they would have to break it open, but it was unlocked. They knew that they could be walking into a trap and were prepared for it, but the was nothing there. No men with guns, no bombs or pressure plates. It was just an ordinary basement.

“Fourth floor,” Mary whispered and checked the staircase. The she grabbed her husband’s hand and plastered on a convincing smile.  
    “Oh, honey, where does Alexa live again?” John asked in a natural tone, instantly getting the hint.

* * *

 

Greg pulled out his megaphone and scanned the building. Its residents looked out of their windows with curious faces, wondering why there were blue and red lights flashing in their kitchen.  
    “Inhabitants of the fourth floor, leave the building with your hands over your head, I repeat; Inha-“ His orders were cut short by a gunshot. The car window next to him shattered into a million pieces and he took cover behind the open door.

“The shooter’s in the window on the right!” Sherlock yelled and pointed his finger at a tiny, hard-to-make-out barrel of a gun.  
    “Open fire!” Greg shouted and Sherlock covered his ears. The people from the lower floors backed away from the window with confused and panicked gazes.

The barrel disappeared from its place but they had no idea if they’d actually hit anyone. The DI looked at Sherlock but the detective shrugged and shook his head. It was too far away.

* * *

 

“There’s two men standing in front of the door,” Mary whispered, “They’re kissing but I’m pretty sure they’re guards. They must’ve heard us.”  
    John nodded. “We’ll walk past them and use the element of surprise.” But at that exact moment, they heard shooting and the two guards stormed into the flat, guns in their hands.

“That solves it,” Mary grinned and sprinted up the stairs, John close her on her heels.  
    They heard the yelling before even opening the door.

* * *

 

“Fuckin’ police are here! Get to the windows, Mark’s been hit!“ Paul shouted, kneeling next to you on the floor. You felt relief wash over you – you didn’t care if it had been Sherlock or some old lady that couldn’t sleep because of the noise, salvation had come.

“They’re here for you, aren’t they,” he spat and grabbed your hair. You just grinned. “Well they ain’t gonna find you alive.” He grabbed his knife and pushed it into your chest in one swift move. No hesitation, no shaking – right between your ribs.

Ironically, you didn’t feel anything. You just stared down at the blade sticking out from the middle of your torso and the blood slowly colouring your shirt in a dark, sickening red.  
    ‘I’ve been stabbed,’ you just thought before your vision got blurry and your head sank to the ground. You knew to leave the knife where it was – you had no idea _how_ you knew, you just did.

There was shouting in the hallway and gunshots, and then there was only silence. Paul rose and tried to lock the door, but it was no use, he was knocked down by… someone? You knew her but you couldn’t remember who it was; or the guy now kneeling next to you, for that matter. He said something that you couldn’t understand and then everything went dark.

* * *

 

They entered the room and Mary was instantly by Paul’s side, kicking him to the ground. She tried to hold him down, but he was so strong that she had to knock him out.  
    John sprinted to (Y/N)’s side and looked her over. He knew he had to be professional, but he couldn’t help the look of naked horror on his face. She was a mess – bleeding from her shoulder, arms, legs and cheek, but the most urgent injury he had to tend to right now was the knife. He cut her shirt open and froze.

From what he could tell under all the black and purple bruises, at least four of her ribs were broken and judging from the blood in her mouth, her lungs had been punctured.  
    Mary waved at the ambulance. John noticed that (Y/N)’s eyes were open. While applying pressure on the gushing stab wound, he shouted with glassy eyes, “You need to stay awake! Look at me, tell me something nice.” Her eyes started to turn back into her head. “No! You have to keep them open!”

Mary’s hand on his shoulder was like an electric shock. He turned around and let the paramedics pass. She wasn’t crying, but her face was of a ghostly white and her bottom lip was trembling. They watched the girl being taken out of the room, unable to follow. They just stood there, staring at the gaping door, their hands intertwined.  
    “She won’t make it,” John said but Mary shook her head in denial. “Don’t say that. She isn’t dead yet and she won’t be in five hours.”

* * *

 

Sherlock tried to make a step towards the stretcher but his muscles weren’t responding. He heard Lestrade’s “Fucking hell” behind him but he couldn’t turn around. He was just staring at the bloody mess that was supposed to be his lodger and wanted to analyse, wanted to know what was going on, but his mind had shut down.

“We’ll follow them later in a police car,” Greg said and grabbed his wrist. “Let’s go up there and get Paul.”

 _Paul_.

Sherlock’s body went hot with hate. He grabbed Lestrade’s gun from his coat pocket and walked towards the building.  
    “Sherlock, don’t!” the DI shouted and followed him. The other policemen made an attempt to get involved, but he told them to stay there. A knocked-out psychopath was nothing four adults couldn’t handle.

John had just cuffed the monster to a radiator when Sherlock entered the room, face blank, but the hand holding the gun shaking violently. “Sherlock, _no_!” Greg yelled again. He looked at the couple for support, but they didn’t even think about getting into the detective’s way.

“He attacked me and you all saw it,” he said in a scarily quiet voice. He then turned around and slapped Paul to wake him up.

“Sherlock! Fancy meeting you here! Come for some drugs?” It was so obvious what he was trying to do that, although he was telling the truth, no one believed him.  
    “John, what did he do to her?” The doctor was taken aback by the question. Couldn’t he have deduced that himself?  
    “Vaginal rips, punctured lung, broken ribs, cuts to the arms and cheek, stab w-“ He stopped when he noticed that the trembling had taken over Sherlock’s entire body. After a short moment of debating with himself, he walked towards him and rested his hand in his friend’s shoulder.

“I think you should give me the gun,” he said in a soft voice, but the next moment, his ears exploded with the loud _crack_ of the shot.  
    “Jesus!” he screamed and covered his ears, because Sherlock pulled the trigger again and again, even when there were no more bullets in the weapon.

Mary grabbed the gun from his hand and took him away from the body. “He attacked you pretty violently,” she said and raised her fist.

* * *

 

They were sitting in the waiting room of the ER, staring holes into the wall. They had been doing that for the past hour, and although no one was saying it, they all knew that it was a good sign. As long as they were waiting, she was alive.

Sherlock was pressing a cold pack on his cheek where “Paul” had hit him. No one had questioned their story – probably because Lestrade had approved of it. Molly had come by as soon as she’d heard what had happened, but she left again shortly after, not being able to bear the thick and heavy atmosphere. “Call me as soon as you know more,” she’d said and they had nodded.

But when the doctor entered the room, they’d never felt less ready for something.


	16. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT GONNA SPOIL THE LAST CHAPTER.

“Gentlemen – Lady – I have good news and bad news. Miss (Y/N) has pulled through, however, there are some serious consequ-“  
    The doctor couldn’t continue because there was a “I KNEW IT” from Mary and a lot of hugging. He couldn’t help but smile at the scene. He almost had to bring bad news. Two times her heart had stopped, yet there was no damage to the brain. This girl was a miracle.

“What are the bad news, Sir?” Sherlock asked, not daring to feel happy yet.  
    “Well, the wound on her shoulder has left her with a nearly fully paralyzed left arm, and the psychological damage is severe. You said she’s went through things like this before?...” He started to thumb through the file in his hands, “We are suggesting a clinical therapy for at least three months.”

“She’d hate that,” Sherlock scoffed. “There is _no way_ we’re sending her to a mental institution!”  
    But Mary interfered. “Yes, she would hate it but it will help her, Sherlock! Do you want her to suffer more? Just staying at your place and solving cases with you won’t help her.” John nodded. “She’s right. I think we owe her this.”

“Would you like to visit her? She’s still asleep, but she’ll wake up soon. You’re the closest thing she has to a family and are paying for her stay, so if you may-“  
    He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Greg, Sherlock, John and Mary hurried past him towards the room.

* * *

 

“She looks like a corpse,” Sherlock remarked unnecessarily. Some of the lighter bruises on your face were already starting to yellow away, but the rest of you looked like a battlefield. They were glad that they didn’t have to see your ribcage, but your arms told enough of a story. The hundreds of cuts were sutured, looking like red snakes against your pale skin. The only sign of you being alive was the slow lifting and sinking of your chest.

There was an ECG measuring your heartbeat, breathing and oxygen levels, constantly beeping and flashing lights. Mary seated herself on the chair next to the bed and massaged your hand. “Paralyzed, huh?”  
    The doctor nodded. “She will still be able to move it, but the feeling in her hand and lower arm is gone. We’ll know more for sure when she wakes up.”

To everybody’s surprise, Sherlock seated himself of the edge of your bed and adjusted the nasal cannula. His eyes were soft and his movements gentle.  
    Greg folded his arms and said with an unsure smile, “She’s a bit young for you, don’t you think?” John snorted and the detective turned around. “I’m NOT-“ he started offended before realizing that they were teasing him.  
    “You’re thick,” Mary grinned, earning herself an unamused glare from Sherlock.

* * *

 

You heard laughter. White light was beaming through your half-closed eyelids. Was this heaven? Surely you’d died. No one could survive being stabbed in the chest.

And yet… the voices were so familiar. And then you could make out the annoying beeping noise that you’d initially hated so much – now it was the sweetest sound you’d ever heard.  
    You tried to move your body into a more comfortable position but your limbs were too weak. You wanted to tell the voices to help you but all that came out was a mumbled “Uncomf’ble”. Then you opened your eyes.

The hospital room was so bright that you had to squint against the whiteness. Someone gasped and hugged you charily. “(Y/N)!” John laughed and ruffled your hair.  
    “The fuck?” was all you were able to say. Even Greg was here, on the phone with someone. Their joy filled up the room until it couldn’t supress a wide smile. It hurt your cheek but you didn’t care.

“How am I alive?” you asked confused and suddenly noticed Sherlock next to when he said, “We really don’t know. You just got lucky.”  
    “You’re okay!” you exclaimed and wanted to hug him, but you still weren’t able to move. He got the hint and stroked your arm. “I was so worried,” he said in a suddenly croaky voice, his mouth a tight line.

John shook his head lightly and licked his lips. “Alright, Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You’ve never cared for _anyone_ so much!” You felt redness creeping up your neck. “Really?”  
    “Yes. I mean, except for John, obviously,” Mary said and shot her husband an amused gaze.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I just happen to like her, if that such an-“ But Sherlock was interrupted by Molly storming into the room.  
    “(Y/N), I’m so glad you’re alive,” she choked out before rushing to your side. “We were so scared, John said you wouldn’t make it, because you really looked so awful!” The words just sputtered out of her mouth and you could see dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

“Whoa, Molly, I’m alright now, no need to be sad,” you soothed. She hiccupped. “I’m h-happy, not sad.”  
    “By the way, thanks for believing in me, John,” you said and feigned hurt. He shrugged. “You weren’t supposed to make it.” He froze when he realized how that sounded, “Fuck, no, what I meant was…”  
    “Better stop talking,” Mary said with a smirk and continued massaging your hand.

You only realized what she was doing when you looked at her. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. All you could feel was a slight pressure where she squeezed your skin, but your whole arm felt… numb.  
    “I can’t feel anything,” you cried out, eyes wide with fear. Your heartbeat quickened and the machine started beeping angrily. You were breathing erratically now, panic churning in your chest. You pinched your skin, but there was nothing. No pain, no stinging, just numbness.  
    “Why can’t I feel anything?” you repeated and pinched again, causing one of the fresh cuts on your arm to start bleeding.

“Calm down! You need to look at me!” John shouted.  
    You eventually did, tears streaming down your face. “Is it paralyzed?” you asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.  
    “Sort of,” Sherlock said from your right, ”You’ll still be able to move it normally, it’s just the sense of touch that’s gone.” You knew he wanted to sound calming, but the message he was delivering wasn’t an easy one.

“That _fucker_ ,” you spat, “Wasn’t enough to ruin my skin, was it?”  
    “He’s dead.” Sherlock’s voice was silent but filled with pride and reassurance. You grabbed his hand. “You killed him?”  
    Greg cleared his throat and Molly looked at Sherlock with shock on her face. “I shot him. I didn’t need to; it was just- after I saw you…” He took a moment to assemble his words. “I was so angry. So I shot him and we – well, Greg told the others it had been self defence so I wouldn’t go to jail.”  
    The DI clearly didn’t approve but John and Mary remained calm. You closed your eyes and smiled. “Thank you,” you whispered and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. You were suddenly exhausted. Before you could tell the others, you had drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

After three boring weeks of lying in bed all day, you were finally able to return to 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was so delighted to see you that she almost cried tears of joy (but only _almost_ ). Sherlock bought actual food for your return and Mary gave you new bed sheets; they were green with a weird leaf pattern, but you liked them.

Showering in your own bathroom for the first time in three weeks was a blessing. You looked down your body; the ugly, slowly healing scars on your numb arm, the yellow bruises on your chest, and of course the two angry red snakes on your shoulder and chest. They were all painful reminders of a time you never wanted to go back to.  
    They remembered you of Paul – but he was dead, and so was the fear. You still had nightmares, flashbacks and the craving for cocaine was ever-present, and that was why you agreed to undergo treatment.

The day of departure wasn’t a sad one – the clinic was quite far away, but they promised they would visit you regularly. You wanted to get better, and that was the key; or at least that’s what John had told you.  
    “It’s going to be better,” Sherlock said when he hugged you goodbye. You believed every word. “Just… please dust the bookshelves before I come back,” you grinned. He grinned back. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading until the end! You have _no idea_ how much that means to me - I didn't expect anyone to actually care for what I write, and yet so many lovely people have read it! :D  
>  I've written a second part to this series (If you're interested)!


End file.
